


ten thousand shades of open

by misandrywitch



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Frozen Four, Pining, and breakfast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if Jack is thinking about how Bitty’s arms felt around his shoulders too, across the hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ten thousand shades of open

**Author's Note:**

> i love eric bittle more than i love my own right lung.

They sit next to each other on the bus ride back to Samwell. Bitty knows it doesn’t mean anything, but he can’t stop the fierce, warm glow in the pit of his stomach. It’s so soft and bright that it hurts, because it’s impossible, because it’s not supposed to be there. Sometimes on longer rides they’ll lean across the aisle to talk to each other, so Bitty can listen to whatever story Holster is telling or offer a pop star pop quiz in Jack’s direction. Sometimes they’ll share headphones, Bitty’s knees in the aisle and Jack leaning his arm against the side of the seat, sometimes nodding along, sometimes (if Bitty is lucky) declaring that he likes it.

They sit side by side on the drive back and don’t say anything.

Somewhere during the ride Bitty nods off because he’s tired to his bones, in his body, his mind and his heart. He wakes up with a crick in his neck, because of the way his head is leaning awkwardly against the back of the seat and his own shoulder. It’s quiet and a little cold, and he shifts a little to slide the zipper up on his jacket, shove his hands a little further into his pockets. Jack’s eyes slide over to him for a second, and then he goes back to looking out the window. Bitty can see half his face lit by the strange mix of dim interior bus lighting and yellow-gold light from outside the window. At this angle, turned away and above him, his face is all angles and lines, the line of his nose and jaw half in shadow.

“Go back to sleep,” Jack says, quietly enough that Bitty almost misses it, and he closes his eyes and pretends to.

* * *

 

If they would have won, the Haus would be filled with people right now, and music, laughter and half-slurred exclamations of success, too much alcohol and a million people Bitty doesn’t know.

When they get home it’s dark and quiet, and nobody bothers to switch on the downstairs light when they troop inside single-file, Holster leading the way, followed by Ransom, then Bitty, with Jack closing the door behind all of them. Bitty had volunteered to follow the frogs home (he’s worried about Chowder) but Nursey had promised they’d all go together and then Ransom had practically manhandled him towards the Haus. Shitty, Bitty notices, had vanished after they’d all gotten off the bus. He hadn’t said much as they’d packed up, had sat on their ride home with his head half on Lardo’s shoulder. Bitty has the strong suspicion that he’s walking Lardo home, which makes him feel warm despite everything. His hands are cold, and his room is cold when he opens the door, but there’s the fierce, warm glow in the pit of his stomach, right at the bottom of his spine, protected by his ribs. Jack closes his own bedroom door as Bitty is kicking off his shoes, the sound of the latch firm and final in the now early-morning quiet, and something inside of Bitty’s heart turns over before he can tell it no, like his own body has a mind of its own and despite everything it just won’t listen.

When he thinks about his body it’s as a source of annoyance, a list of things that it’s not, a metric to compare himself to other people who are more, in the very literal sense. But as he pulls on a clean pair of sweats and closes his own bedroom door, all he can think of is that he’s grateful for it. His arms didn’t fit all the way around Jack’s shoulders, sideways and side by side, Jack with most of his gear still on, but that hadn’t mattered at all. He’s grateful for it because he keeps telling himself no, over and over and over, and it doesn’t seem to care, holds onto the fierce, warm glow behind his ribs with the kind of determination Bitty might admire in someone else.

Bitty knows that assuming anything is dangerous, that hope is like fire in how it’ll spread and set everything else alight if you let it get started at all. He knows he’s in the habit of seeing meanings in things that aren’t there, and that it’ll hurt like a sock to the stomach every time.

But it’s still there, all the same, and none of the things he tells himself, on repeat over and over and over as he’s lying in bed after everyone in the Haus has shut their lights off and gone to sleep, makes any difference. He thinks about the look in Jack’s eyes, about what he knows about how Jack feels. He thinks about how Jack is lying across the hall, probably blaming himself, resting the weight of the whole team on his shoulders and trying to carry it even though nobody ever asked him to, even though they all would pitch in. He thinks about Jack’s shoulders under his hands. He’d cried. Bitty had wanted to cry the minute they’d all gotten off the ice but hadn’t until that moment because it had felt like the right moment.

He wonders if Jack is thinking about how Bitty’s arms felt around his shoulders too, across the hall. He’s wondering that when he finally falls asleep.

* * *

 

The next morning, Bitty wakes up before anyone else does. He realizes this when he wanders downstairs in search of coffee and sees the blinking light above the oven, 7 a.m., and the pale yellow sun through the kitchen windows. He opens the fridge and stares into it for a few minutes, evaluating the potential for breakfast food before accepting that he’s going to have to go to the store if he’s going to make enough for everyone. Which is exactly what he’s going to do, because they deserve it, because if there’s anything Bitty’s good at it’s making biscuits.

Biscuits and gravy and butter, and bacon and coffee. Comfort food. This makes him laugh for some reason, and he giggles to himself as he walks back up the stairs to put on a pair of jeans. It’s 7 a.m. and he’s about to go to the grocery store to make biscuits. Like Moomaw like grandson.

Bitty’s putting in his headphones and struggling a little with the laces of one of his sneakers when he leaves his bedroom, and he almost doesn’t notice Jack’s bedroom door opening until he walks right into him. His headphones fall out of his ears and his phone falls out of his hand, and he sighs and looks up at Jack, who is frowning.

“Well good morning,” Bitty says, and he bends to scoop up his phone and stick it more securely into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Bittle?” There’s a crease between Jack’s eyebrows that indicates his bewilderment. It’s an attractive crease. “Why are you awake?”

“Hey!” Bitty says, feigning offense. “I can get up before noon if I have to, you know. And just because I’ve got the ability doesn’t mean I’m missing a brain--” Jack’s expression cracks a little around the mouth. He looks exhausted, bags under his eyes like shadows, still unshaven and weary around his jaw. Bitty wonders if he’d gotten any sleep last night. He’s wearing jogging shorts and his bright yellow shoes, has a beanie on his head.

“Yeah, but you’re dressed. Where are you going at 7 a.m.?”

Bitty wants to say ‘sure as hell not going to checking practice,’ but he doesn’t, because that feels like a lead weight in his stomach. No more checking practice. “I’m going to buy butter,” he says, and then he regrets that for half a second because he knows he’s going to get teased. He stops regretting it a second later because Jack’s face does slide into a smile, right at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re making a pie at 7 a.m. I should’ve guessed.”

“No,” Bitty says with as much dignity as he can. “I’m making breakfast, thank you very much. But we’re out of butter, and eggs. And orange juice. And milk, probably.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Jack says, and Bitty blinks. “I was going to go on a run, but I don’t really feel like it, to be honest.”

"Alright," Bitty says, and he hopes his voice doesn't sound as wildly out of control as whatever's going on inside his head, "but you're not gonna get out of carrying groceries back, you hear?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jack says, and he turns towards the stairs. Bitty follows him half a second later, letting out a long breath.

"Where's Shitty?" he asks as they walk through the bottom floor. Shitty's bedroom door is open and his room empty, and it's pretty surprising that Bitty's up before noon but downright unbelievable that Shitty would be. One good thing about losing, Bitty thinks as pulls on another jacket, is that there's no need to chase out any partygoers this morning, and the kitchen is still clean, and nobody tried to break into his bedroom to hook up last night. 

"I don't know," Jack says. He holds the door open for Bitty and Bitty steps out onto the porch. It's breezy outside, but bright. The leaves on the tree in the front yard are rustling. "Lardo's, I think," Jack continues, and Bitty turns to look at him as Jack shuts the door. Bitty waits for him to catch up and they walk down the pavement side by side. "I know he walked her home last night and I never heard him come in," Jack says. 

"Oh," Bitty pauses, chews his lip for a second. "Do you think that means that they--"

"I don't know," Jack says, and to be fair that's about as much as anyone knows about Shitty and Lardo's long-running will-they-won't-they. "What are you going to make for breakfast? Pancakes?"

"Biscuits and gravy," Bitty says, "but I can make pancakes too, if that's what you want! It's just-- well. It's silly." 

"No," Jack says. "I'm sure it's not." 

"It is," Bitty insists. He pauses and scoots behind Jack as a jogger passes them, then steps up so they're side by side again, almost shoulder to shoulder. "Well, alright. When I was really little and my dad had to travel for work, for their games, I'd usually go stay with my Moomaw. This was before she moved into the nursing home, she lived by herself and she'd keep an eye on me." He's started into the story and feels silly telling it, but it would be sillier to stop in the middle so he keeps going. Jack is watching him, the crease between his eyebrows again. "When I was really small I'd get upset that Coach was travelling places without me, and when I was older, after I tried to play football-- well--" he cuts himself off. "Point is, my Moomaw would always make this recipe when I missed them or when I was sick, or under the weather. It's comfort food. Biscuits and gravy means someone cares about you, means everything's gonna be alright eventually."

He stops himself and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, feeling really foolish, the back of his neck too warm. There are days that Bitty wishes he could shake the stories like these from his past and his memory and his meaning. They feel too quaint, rustic and overly sentimental, marking his childhood as one defined by biscuits and gravy and hot muggy summers and football games. 

"It isn't silly," Jack says, his voice quiet, and Bitty finds he doesn't feel like that today. 

"I know it is, it's alright," Bitty says anyway.

"I wish--" Jack pauses as he hits the button to signal a no-walk sign to change to they can cross the street to the Stop-N-Shop. "Biscuits and gravy can't fix everything," he says, and then the light changes so they cross together. 

Bitty wants to say a lot of things. He wants to tell Jack that it isn't his fault, that he doesn't need to feel like it is, that they're all here, every one of them, to carry the weight of the whole team, that it's not all on him. He wants to tell him that sure, he wishes they would have won, they all do, and of course it matters, but other things matter more. They got there together, the two of them and everyone else. This hurts but they'll get through it together too, a team. 

But Bitty also knows that whatever he has to say won't mean anything, that it isn't the same for him. He has next year, and the year after. He doesn't know how to say what he wants to because the words feel too big to say out loud. I'm proud of you. We all are. This doesn't change how I see you, how anyone does. 

"I know that," Bitty says, finally. "That's not the point. The point is--" Jack is looking at him, and Bitty lets himself meet his eyes. "The point is that maybe they might." 

Jack stares at him for a long minute, his eyes very blue and very serious. "What I don't understand," he says finally, and Bitty braces himself, "is how you can like biscuits and gravy but poutine grosses you out." 

Bitty gives him an incredulous look. "That's because you haven't had my Moomaw's biscuits and gravy yet," he says. 

"So you're saying," Jack says slyly, "that I shouldn't knock it til I try it." 

Bitty rolls his eyes, and goes off to find the butter.

* * *

They stop for coffee to go on their walk home, and Bitty details the biscuit-making process because he has to talk about something, and by the time they get back to the Haus Ransom and Holster are hunched over the kitchen counter waiting for the coffeemaker, and Shitty and Lardo are sitting on the couch with the television on. Shitty is two seconds away from stuffing a huge handful of fruit loops into his mouth when Bitty snatches the box from him.

"Aww, Bits!" he hollers. "I was gonna eat that." Bitty gives him a look. 

"Someone call the frogs and tell them to come over," he says. "I'm making breakfast. These," he looks at the fruit loops in disdain, "can wait, thank you very much." He drops them onto the kitchen counter as he sets down his bags of groceries, starts pulling bowls and trays out from under the cabinet. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Shitty wrangle Jack into a hug, practically pulling him onto the couch. Jack puts his forehead into Shitty's shoulder for a second, stays there, and the inside of Bitty's chest aches like a bruise. Like a bruise, it'll heal, turn purple and then yellow and then brown until it's faded altogether. Eventually.

"Hey," Lardo says, leaning her elbows on the kitchen counter. "Need a hand?"

"No," Bitty says. "I got it."

"You're a champ," Lardo says. She looks tired too, no makeup on, hair ruffled and untidy. They all look like that. Wrung out. They'd all been sitting at the moment of anticipation of this game for so long, in their hearts and on their thoughts, in the school newspapers and all their conversations. And now it's over. 

"Really, Bits," Ransom says, snapping Bitty out of his thoughts. "Champ. The truest of bros." 

"Y'all," Bitty protests. "Now shoo, I need elbow room." 

Bitty is cutting biscuit dough when the front door bangs open, bringing Chowder, Dex, Nursey and the breeze from outside. They hover around the kitchen door until Bitty sighs and motions for them to come in and sit down. Shitty and Jack join them too, Shitty leaning against the counter out of reach of Bitty's spoon when he tries to stick his fingers in the gravy, and Jack with one shoulder against the doorframe.

Bitty thinks about how he had felt with Jack's shoulders under his hands, that his arms hadn't quite fit all the way, that he hadn't minded. He wonders if Jack is thinking about that, too. He turns around to flip the bacon, the kitchen filling with the smell and sound of bacon grease. He can hear Shitty grumbling about some news article he's reading on his phone, Dex ask him a question, Nursey laugh. Lardo snorts, and Bitty's sure she's rolling her eyes good-naturedly. 

They're all going to have to live with this. Answer the questions, give the interviews, manage the hurt. He still has to call home, and that thought makes him nervous, though to be honest if there's something his dad can understand it's not winning the big game. He's definitely been in that position before, sometimes many times, and it's never the end of anything. They'll all have to live with it, and it's never the end of anything, and at the moment they're all gathered in the kitchen which smells like bacon and baking biscuits. 

Bitty almost jumps when he feels a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. His elbows almost knocks his wooden spoon, balancing in the gravy, onto the floor. 

"Careful," Jack says, behind him, and there's that fierce, warm glow in Bitty's stomach and it's saying  _what if, what if, maybe, maybe_ even as he tells it not to. "Here," Jack continues. "I'll hold plates, you serve." 

Bitty turns around a little to look at him, and for a second they're way too close, Bitty's hip practically pressed into Jack's thigh because he's standing close to the oven. Jack moves back after a second, reaches above them to pull plates out of the cabinet Bitty always struggles to access. 

"Thanks," Bitty says, and they work together to distribute breakfast. 

They're all going to have to live with this. Bitty understands that, all too well, understands the hard sting of not winning, of not getting what you want even when every part of you works so hard to make it happen. 

Maybe he'll make peanut butter cookies this afternoon. 

Jack sets his plate down next to Shitty's across the kitchen island, leans on his elbows and cuts into his biscuit. Bitty doesn't want to want his approval but he does anyway, and when Jack grins he grins back.

"Maybe you're right," Jack says, and doesn't bother to explain himself when Holster asks what he means. It's private, between the two of them, and Bitty knows he shouldn't assume things, knows that hope is like a fire, knows he's in the business of reading too much into nothing, but that doesn't stop the fact that he's warm, in his heart and his mind and his body. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from wasabi by andrea gibson ("but hey, you like peanut butter and I like you.")
> 
> i'm always nervous about writing bitty's pov & i wrote this in like 2 hrs so i hope its alright. hmu @ shittybknights.t.com or on twitter & tell me what you think :)


End file.
